Earlier this week, Navjot Singh — an official at the Finance Ministry — was killed after a BMW crashed into his motorcycle. Gaganpreet Makkar was driving the car, her two children and husband were passengers. She is accused of culpable homicide not amounting to murder for taking Singh and his wife to a hospital at a distance from the site of the accident. Singh died while his wife suffered injuries.
In the aftermath of the death, a predictable cacophony of righteous indignation — so crass that it seems to border on bloodlust — took over television “news” channels and social media. Is it about a death, tragic, untimely, or about the luxury car that caused it? Is it an act of empathy for Navjot’s parents, who are understandably angry and hurt, or one of performative outrage, feeding our own content machines? After all, everyone with a smartphone is now concerned with their private TRPs — views, likes, click-through rates, impressions.
The easy answer is yes. The death of a man from a luxury car and even the whiff of negligence from the driver fits a well-worn groove for the urban news consumer: From the Sanjeev Nanda hit-and-run case at the dawn of the 24/7 news cycle in the late 1990s and early 2000s to Salman Khan’s legal woes following his hit-and-run episode in 2002, the luxury car has become a symbol of impunity for many Indians. And in the social media age, it’s an easy, no-nonsense way to be part of the pack.
This outrage, however, is just one part of the schizophrenic architecture of middle-class aspirations. The Mercedes, BMW and “Lambargini” are, equally, objects of desire and markers of success and status. And in a society as deeply unequal as ours, “status” in the popular imagination is equated with impunity. In fact, so is success. Which is why, perhaps, the “lal batti” is still arguably more valuable than a 50 lakh rupee car — just as being a member of the Gymkhana Club or the India International Centre is more “classy” than paid privileges at a five-star hotel.
For the middle-class — those of us on two-wheelers and in “small” cars — the death of a compatriot from a BMW also strikes another chord, tugs at a deeper sense of unacknowledged guilt and fear. What B R Ambedkar called “graded inequality” still marks the everyday hypocrisy and tribulations of this class, the same people who watch news channels and post on social media. We bully the underage waiter at a dhaba, and feel nervous about mispronouncing the names of dishes at a fancy restaurant. We bargain with the sabziwala and save up to buy exotic avocados. We oppress the pedestrian and the man on a cycle (those who use it to get to work, not the fancy bikers with helmets and gear) and fear the oppression of the BMW and the lal batti.
The death of one of us, then, perhaps, strikes a genuine chord. We identify with the victim. But this also prevents us from looking at ourselves, of realising how often we are and how easily we could be the perpetrator.
Imagine, if just for a moment, giving Makkar the benefit of the doubt — that she wasn’t under the influence while driving and that it was a genuine accident. Put yourself in her position. One afternoon, you’re in an accident. Would you “hit and run” ? In the face of the police and the possibility of rent-seeking, of a long-drawn-out court case and even jail time, many might panic and flee. Maybe, like Makkar, you don’t run. You, too, want to help. Would you rush to a hospital that’s close or where you know people who can help you as much as the victims? Many of us would do the right thing at every turn, some of us at none at all. The “system” certainly doesn’t encourage the former — but then, it can also come down hard on the latter.
Makkar made many mistakes. But before we rush to judge, condemn and pass sentence, we should ask ourselves whether it’s because of the alleged crime or the BMW. More importantly, why do all of us want one?
aakash.joshi@expressindia.com
